


Aim for Silence

by JointExisting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Figure Skaters, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, M/M, Stressed Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting
Summary: It's the British Figure Skating Championships, and Aziraphale is what you would call a little stressed.Crowley helps him through it.//Figure Skating AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59





	Aim for Silence

Aziraphale paced the warm-up area, staying as far away from the _sh-sh-sh_ of clicking cameras as was possible. He curled his hands into the hem of his jacket and tossed a glance across to the coaches area—where Frances should be, but she wasn’t. She’d phoned twice about traffic in the past few hours, but told him repeatedly she was doing her best, that she would try to be there to see him on to the ice after warm-up.

She had twenty minutes to drive the last hour of the three-and-a-half hour trip from London to Sheffield. Aziraphale, although never one to lose hope, was fast becoming nervous—and that wasn’t exactly a good thing to be when you were about to strap a pair of _knife boots_ on to your feet and propel yourself into the air for three rotations to land on a thin blade and _smile at the judges_ before launching yourself into two more similar jumps right after.

He jumped at the sound of the applause from the rink as the _thump-ump_ of Group 3’s last skater came to an end, and with it any likely chance Aziraphale would have of a last encouraging moment with his coach. Tensing his lean muscles, a hand set on his chub, he tried to let the shakes dispense with a breath—another—one more, but the overall effect was muted in comparison to what a quick word with Frances would do, feeling another shiver ripple through him.

“All right, skaters!” called an organiser, waving away the reporters from the corridor. “Group 4! I need all of Group 4, please! Your off-ice warm-up time is over. Please proceed to the locker rooms to get your skates on.”

Aziraphale collected his skipping rope – which he hadn’t used – and started the leg-trembling walk past the film crew. He kept his head set forward and his lips in a straight line, but from the corner of his eye he saw the black eye of the camera following him. It quickly found a new mark, but for one moment a large portion of British figure skating fans were seeing him, and what a sight they must have seen—he was vaguely sure the only other moment they’d caught him on camera was when he’d started hyperventilating and a medic had come to make sure he was all right.

He’d blamed it on asthma, and that he’d left his inhaler in the hotel – how silly of him, oh dear, _yes, please, look at me like the idiot I am!_ The excuse would have probably worked well if he hadn’t visibly just gotten off the phone with Frances and realised she probably wouldn’t make it, since the accident on the road was far worse than they’d been told. Of course, there was also the fact his medical records said nothing about asthma.

Aziraphale shifted with every step, awkwardly lifting his hips in some faint attempt to work the tension out before he got to the ice. In the back of his mind, he cursed Frances – although he knew he had no right to – because if she’d just come up on train like she was supposed to, none of this would be happening; he would have warmed up normally to the rouse of _Bach_ and _Schubert_ , would have taken a moment to calm his nerves instead of restlessly pacing, would have been fine in front of the cameras as they shuttered, and most importantly he would have his skate bag.

_Wait. Bugger._

Aziraphale turned on the ball of his left foot as the door shut behind him and his breath caught in his throat, stuttering out in a couple of seizing coughs. He spun around and sought out the pristine, white suitcase among the _Zucas_ and the duffels, but it wasn’t there.

No,no,no,no,no,no, _no_.

His eyes widened, watching as the other skaters – apparently having not taken notice of Aziraphale’s disbelief at himself – grumbled about the conduct of the reporters and began to lace-up, the tension about them the usual for competitors only doing the British to get to the bigger, better internationals.

Aziraphale’s jaw slackened and he slumped forward, a faint voice in the back of his head telling him to step back outside and to go grab his skates—but... _This is it. This is the last stop of my season – and it’s barely begun!_ He’d have to lace-up rinkside, and he’d make everything a little bit late if they even allowed him to compete at all.

Suddenly the door opened behind him, pushing into his shoulder. Aziraphale stumbled forwards, managing to grab the edge of a bench- “Aziraphale?” Crowley stood there, a drained but gentle smile replacing the usual frown he had at competitions to ward off bothersome reporters. “You left your skates in the warm-up area.”

“Crowley! Thank heavens!” Aziraphale let the pent-up breath out of his lungs and began to stand up on trembling legs to grab the suitcase. His ankle collapsed under him, and he just about pushed himself on to his side to not fall on his face.

A few of the other skaters snickered. Aziraphale sat up and let out a breathy chuckle, his whole jaw shaking from splintering nerves. He took Crowley’s offered hand, sitting back down on the bench as the other man brought the case over and set it beside him. Crowley didn’t drop his hold just yet, rubbing the pad of his thumb across Aziraphale’s knuckles as he frowned at the locker room.

“Ya know,” Crowley began, and Aziraphale stiffened at the low growl in his tone—directed at the others. “When I still competed in singles – last season – if another skater was nervous we didn’t laugh at him.” He downed his glasses, squinting at them. “I see you there, Gabriel. Glad I don’t have to share ice with you anymore.”

“Crowley,” Gabriel responded indignantly, pulling his lace sharply. “OK. You brought Fell’s skates; maybe you should leave now? Eh? What about it, sunshine?” He slammed the back of his guarded blade down a few times into the matting, trying to lock his ankle in place.

Crowley pressed his glasses back up and crossed his arms. “Technically, I’m his secondary coach - and a fellow competitor. I got rights.” He looked down at Aziraphale and gave a flick of his head. “Lace up, angel.”

Sitting beside Gabriel, Sandalphon let out a duck-ish laugh as he patterned his laces, tugging them a little tight at the top. Aziraphale stooped, a harsh blush colouring his white skin, beginning to frantically untie his trainers. He grabbed for his case as he toed off his other shoe without bothering to unlace it, pulling down the zipper to tug out his skates; their familiar weight grounded him, sitting there holding his left, and he carefully removed the soft guard to replace it with his white hard guards.

He did the same with the other, while Crowley stood over him, giving the other skaters short and stubborn glares from behind his dark glasses. “Put that one on,” Crowley muttered, reaching down to begin untying the other skate enough. “Gimme your foot.”

Aziraphale felt his face warm up even more as Crowley took a heavy seat beside him and began to work the boot over his right foot. “Give it a kick.” Aziraphale dropped it on to the floor, and Crowley went with it, kneeling in front of him to begin tugging the laces this way and that.

Another bout of laughter had started up, but Aziraphale ignored it in favour of setting the former singles-skater with a firm-set stare. Crowley might have glanced up, maybe smirked, before he went back to work on tying the skate. “How’s that feel?” he asked as he looped the lace over the hooks and waited for confirmation before double-knotting.

“It’s good, dear,” said Aziraphale, flexing his foot. Crowley glanced across at the left and immediately set to work retying it – mumbling something between “You’re shaking too badly to tie your laces properly” and “You’re gonna break your bloody ankle”.

Unable to keep the small, grateful smile off his face, Aziraphale leant back on his palms and tested the lift on his ankle; nothing. Perfect. Crowley always knew how to do up his laces just right. When the other was released, Aziraphale said, “Thank you so much, dear.”

“No lift?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“None. They’re tip-top.”

Crowley’s smile strained at the edges of his lips as he rolled down the hems of Aziraphale’s trousers over his skates, fastening them underneath. He held the boot securely in his grip a moment longer, rubbing the leather. “Are they getting a bit broken down?” he asked casually, the chill in his voice from earlier replaced by keen fondness.

“They’ll last the season,” said Aziraphale, checking his guards. Around him, the locker room emptied in the clicking silence of plastic guards. He glanced up, catching Gabriel’s eyes flicking between them – they made eye contact briefly, before the broader man swept himself out the door. “Guess... Guess I should follow them, hm?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, getting up off his knees. He zipped up the suitcase and took its handle, pulling it towards him. “Aziraphale – hey, look at me?”

Despite the prickly undertone, Aziraphale looked up.

Crowley leant down and pressed their lips together for a fleeting kiss, the faintest touch, a casual and quiet act of love. Aziraphale breathed through the kiss, his eyes slipping closed at the smooth taste of caffeine sitting on Crowley’s lips—a hand on his shoulder, surely meant to push him back, squeezed and tugged them together. Crowley's fingers worked the anxious muscles and they broke apart, only to come back together a heartbeat later.

Aziraphale pressured the kiss, letting out a stunted whine when Crowley pulled back and enveloped him in a tight hug. “ _Lay-_ ter. You’re OK, angel,” Crowley whispered, dotting kisses down Aziraphale’s neck. “C’mon. We’ll get through this short together, all right?”

Breathing a little heavier than he should, Aziraphale nodded at him. “Yes. Yes, of course, dear... I... I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He pressed a hand against his forehead and shook his head, briefly raising his eyes to meet the black of Crowley’s glasses. “I... I hate the British.”

“I know,” said Crowley, shuddering. “It’s impersonal as Hell; I get it, trust me.” A different sort of smile split into his cheeks and he added, “You’re gonna try and beat Gabriel, right?”

“Oh, dear, I will try.” Aziraphale fanned himself, clenching his hand into a fist. “But I will settle for Sandalphon here – I mean, so long as I get into the long program-”

“Angel, you’ll make the long program easily!” Crowley pressed a glare at his smartphone, before stashing it in his pocket. “You’re one of the best skaters in the country. If Frances was here-”

Aziraphale gulped.

“ _-If Frances was here_ ,” Crowley repeated, taking the other’s shaking hands. They relaxed in his familiar hold, and Aziraphale let out a breath he knew he’d been holding in, but hadn’t been able to work out how to let out. “She’d be telling you.” Crowley spoke slowly, carefully, running his thumbs over the backs of Aziraphale’s hands. “ _Aim for silence_.”

“I-I know, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, slumping their foreheads together; his eyelashes held unshed tears, the stemmed panic coming out. “I-I’m just... I’m scared—when it’s just me, and the ice, an-and... And it’s – Sometimes, it just feels so- so _damn_ close.”

Crowley moved his head back to press his lips against the gentle heat of Aziraphale’s head. He let them sit there, breathing slow and quiet, before tugging Aziraphale toward the door to the corridor. “There’s nothing to fear now; this is your program, angel, you’ve done it a thousand and three times by now... Besides, I’ll be there by the barrier, a’right?”

“You—you will?” Aziraphale snatched his hands back, blinkered, staring at Crowley.

“Without Frances here, they’re letting me act as coach – ‘cause, you know, I’m your secondary coach anyway.” Crowley smiled at Aziraphale, pulling open the door to let them out into the empty hallway. He checked his watch. “Zamboni’ll be off the ice in a minute. Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale placed a hand against his heart as he walked, careful to avoid the wheels of his suitcase. He came up beside Crowley a few seconds later and looked at the concentration he was wearing, frowning deeply. “Are you... thinking about tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked, his thoughts supplying the many hours he’d listened to _Fire on Fire_ on repeat in the rink, the beat practically underpinning their every training session.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Crowley with a nod. “You aren’t the only nervous one...” He downed his glasses for a second to give Aziraphale a wink. “Eh. Just hope _Elisa_ will be feeling better tomorrow.”

“Well, the poor dear is allowed to have a moment’s peace, you know,” Aziraphale countered, sending him a quaint smile. “Now, stop worrying about Elisa. _Avery_ needs you, too, you know. Probably more.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Well, I would hope so.” They shared a private chuckle and continued to the wide doors. Crowley flashes his card and the guard there opened it to let them through into the rink.

Aziraphale drew in a breath and bit his lip in habitual panic, flinching when he felt Crowley’s hand brush against his hip—his breath settled against Aziraphale’s ear and he whispered, “I’ll be by the boards next to Beelzebub, all right?” Crowley patted his hip again, letting his hand slip along Aziraphale’s body as he walked away to his post, pulling along the suitcase.

Nodding definitely, Aziraphale moved up to stand behind one of the other skaters – he didn’t recognise them actually; their jacket had the clean lines of one of the Scottish clubs. Dismissing the distractive thoughts, Aziraphale looked up and around at the rink. The zamboni had left, and a few marshals were hurriedly cleaning the snow off the edges before the skaters were allowed on to the ice for their warm up.

A woman by the side began gesturing them on a few minutes later. Aziraphale plucked off his guards and stepped on, leaning down to touch the smooth ice. “Hello, friend,” he said quietly, the tension pushing out of his shoulders at the familiar glide and soft-grip he had. He skated past Crowley – chucked his guards – and joined the other skaters in the middle of the ice for their introduction.

The arena wasn’t packed as such, but there were more people than he would normally expect for the British; it send a bolt of adrenalin through him, shifting from one skate to the other as a few skaters were announced, and then Sandalphon was introduced, and then, “Avery Fell, from London.”

Aziraphale skated forward, raising his arms to wave a gentle hello to the crowds – some of whom called his name and whistled. He slipped back into position, catching a look at Crowley leaning over the barrier and clapping.

And then, “Gabriel Arch, also from London.”

Gabriel pushed forwards using his toe and waved at the cheering crowds, a smile spilling across his usually stoic expression as he showed off a quick spin.  
Aziraphale, watching, felt himself tense as the announcer asked them to begin their six minutes. Immediately, he skated across to Crowley, who was waiting with his white gloves. “Ready, angel?”

“Crowley. I want to beat Gabriel.”

“I want to beat him, too, angel, but you asked me to leave my crowbar at home,” Crowley replied with a slight chuckle, pulling down his sunglasses to stare out at the skaters—following Gabriel’s pressing movements over the ice. With each toe-assisted jump, ice flung in all directions. “Jeez, he’s gonna total himself.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pressed, as he pulled on his gloves and recalled the strayed attention of the other, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “I want to do the triple axel.”

Crowley’s face remained stoic. “You’re still only landing it half the time, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stared at him pleadingly. “If I can land it in the warm up... can I?”

“Angel, you want to change your program’s jump layout in six minutes?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, his mouth contorting into a slackened frown. “How can someone _so_ smart be _so_ stupid?”

“It’s been done before!” Aziraphale said beneath his breath when Sandalphon appeared to his left for a gulp of water; they shared a quick glance, before the stouter man flung himself back out on to the ice. He crashed out of an unprepared double Lutz a moment later.

Crowley let out a long, long sigh, shaking his head. “Aziraphale. It’s too risky.”

“It’ll beat Gabriel, though.” Aziraphale tapped the barrier; a minute was already gone. He needed to get out there and move. He removed his jacket, his simple shirt-and-jacket custom on display. “Please, just let me try. The _base value_ , Crowley.”

“They might not even accept it.”

“But at least, then, I’ve landed it in competition!” Aziraphale breathed, looking into the black depths of Crowley’s glasses. “It’s just the British, Crowley! It’s not like it’s Skate America—or anything important.” He lowered his tone, in case the stuffy organisers were listening.

Crowley scowled. “... Frances will kill me.” He waved his wrist at Aziraphale, and then the rink. “No. Save it. It’s not worth the deduction if you fall out of it—and what if you get _hurt?_ ” Crowley offered his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek, held it gently, and then gave it a small pat. “Just go out there and do your best, angel.” Their eyes briefly met. “Aim for silence.”

Aziraphale relented, pushing away from the barrier to finally begin his warm up. It went quicker than it ever had, without incident; he’d just about managed to finish off his final spin combination, rising from his cannonball into a scratch, when the overhead announcer was ordering them all off the ice except for the lad from Scotland. Aziraphale grabbed his guards from Crowley and stepped off the ice, brushing the snow off his blade before he hooked them on to his skates.

“Good practice,” said Crowley absently, staring out at the white light of the ice as the first program began. He and Aziraphale leant together beside the barrier and watched the first program, and then the second; both by skaters neither of them had caught the name of, too busy settling into discussions on the program itself. Both scores topped first.

It was Sandalphon’s turn. His program, to an obscene-sounding song from the early 90’s, went with a few hitches, including stepping out of a spin and nearly toppling over. Nearby, they heard Gabriel’s lint of a laugh when Sandalphon came down wrongly on his blade and fell on the triple salchow.

Bruised, in pride and body, Sandalphon barely waited to hear his scores in the Kiss and Cry before he was stomping off to take off his skates. He was so far in second place, and likelihood was he’d end up in fourth after Aziraphale and Gabriel.

Aziraphale closed his eyes as he stepped on to the ice, having thankfully removed his guards, and skated over to meet Crowley who’d sulked off back to his post. “Just skate the best you can,” said Crowley, placing his hand neatly over Aziraphale’s. “You can’t do worse than that shit.”

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale tutted, but a smile was growing on his expression; he was definitely going to be in a great position going into the free program.  
He was planning to be in first, with a decent lead, but... Aziraphale flicked his stare to where Gabriel was standing, waiting and watching, his small eyes narrowed. Gulping in another lungful of air, Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “Dear. May I...?”

Crowley immediately pulled off his glasses, reaching forwards to grab Aziraphale’s shoulders—steadying him, if anyone asked. “Everyone believes in you – the kids, bookgirl and her boyfriend, Frances, me. Angel, I believe in you. You can do it.” Their foreheads touched briefly, and if anyone noticed Aziraphale steal a kiss it wasn’t mentioned. “Aim for silence, angel. _Aim for silence_.”

Aziraphale nodded and turned away, pressing into his edges as he moved into the middle of the rink. They introduced him, the crowd cheered. Aziraphale tuned it out, turned to look at Crowley standing there, watching him, glasses removed. He was holding his breath, even if later he’d not admit it.

He waited for his music, head bowed, as the silence of judgement approached. He clasped his hands together in prayer for his opening position, standing with his skates together. The first strains of _Hallelujah_ began to play into the silence he’d waited for, and he raised his head into the white lights, opening his arms like an angel would open their wings, and began to skate.

**Author's Note:**

> I love self indulgence.  
> ANYWAY(Anyhow?), I've had this idea dotting about my head for a while now, so I wrote up a little experiment piece up to see what I could make out of it. I'm actually quite excited to possibly explore this alt. universe more - maybe even in a larger story.  
> Thank you for reading!


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